Into this wild Abyss/ The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave--/ Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,/ But all these in their pregnant causes mixed/ Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,/ Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain/ His dark materials to create more worlds,--/ Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend/ Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,/ Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith/ He had to cross.

His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.

Death ready stands to interpose his dart.

To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.

Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!